


A Dream Coming True For Wishin’

by aidennestorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming In Pants, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Genderfluid Character, Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex, Rimming, Romance, Sex Toys, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 02:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18540124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: Alex Hamilton prides himself on being the best damn rent boi there is, a perfect match for the wealthy and well-placed George Washington— except when it comes to dealing with those pesky things called ‘feelings’.





	A Dream Coming True For Wishin’

**Author's Note:**

> *double takes at the tags*
> 
> Believe it or not, this is indeed an aidennestorm fic, my friends. ;) I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (Inspirations for this fic are linked in the end notes, if you'd like to see them ahead of time.)

After the third time Alex gets dragged to a charity ball as the hot piece of ass hanging respectfully on George Washington’s well-muscled arm, he gets… disillusioned. It’s not the curious stares that follow him and his custom tuxedo-dresses, slinky and daring on the bottom and all buttoned-up business on top. _(Just like us,_ Alex had smirked, when he showed George the design and explained the aesthetic; George had laughed that genuine belly-laugh that shook his whole frame and made his eyes crinkle, and then proceeded to pin him to the bed and fuck him until Alex couldn’t do anything but scream.)

It’s not inferiority, even though the outfit he’s wearing is worth more than his first two cars put together, and some left over besides. Alex _knows_ he’s worth it. He’s a brilliant conversationalist, an excellent fuck, and he can follow directions like a petulant brat or a sweet plaything, depending on his client’s mood. Moreover, he’s in this… _relationship…_ of his own free will, just like George is. If George fucking Washington didn’t want him, Alex would already be out on his ass.

He’s not worried.

(Not about his place in George’s life, at least.)

He’s just _bored._ He can recite the details of every event while sleep and coffee deprived, naming donors and social strata and community impact and numbers. He remembers more than the people attending or _running_ the damn things. George’s gaze often flicks his way when Alex makes an observation, something contemplative but carefully neutral brewing in his expression.

But whatever thoughts George has, he hasn’t seen fit to share them. And unlike Alex, he can keep his mouth shut.

It’s a mystery, but Alex craves those. Craves challenges, something _different._

He craves _this,_ right here. Alex pauses in the middle of thumbing through a shopping site on his phone, clicking on the item to open a new tab, and finishes his well-reasoned offer— “So how about it? It’ll be fun, and your schedule is open next weekend.”

“I think you and I have different ideas of _fun.”_

Alex looks up. George’s face is placid, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes that Alex knows, from several months of experience, means _convince me._ He seizes upon it, adding with a slowly spreading grin, “Bullshit. You don’t do these ass-kissing events for _fun._ You do it because it’s your job, but I can show you a _much_ better time than any of them.”

George reaches for him easily and rests his hand on Alex’s thigh, a heavy weight through the luxurious fabric of the skirt. Alex’s breath stutters a little, but he doesn’t miss the idle inquiry. “What do you have in mind?”

“Club I used to frequent.” George’s hand slides farther, nudging his thighs apart. Alex forces air into his suddenly pounding chest. “Kind of a ‘what happens in Vegas’ and ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ ethos.” He bites his lip when thick fingers brush over his steadily hardening cock. “But you can’t go in _that.”_

George pauses his ministrations as he glances down at himself. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Not a goddamn thing,” Alex admits begrudgingly; just as he didn’t bother to get undressed after trudging into the loft on aching feet, George is still in nearly full tux. The only thing that’s missing is his cummerbund, and his bow tie is undone and hanging loose around his neck, his shirt partially unbuttoned. Fucking delectable, as always. George chuckles, fond, and Alex adds, “But we’ll get bounced out for being pretentious assholes. It’s not that kind of place.”

Full eyebrows rise. “What do you suggest?”

Alex hands his phone to George, browser open to the jacket that’s caught his eye. Biker style, a pattern that’s a little ostentatious, but charmingly so. Conveniently selected to George’s size.

George hums thoughtfully. “And you?”

The other page Alex has at the ready is something a little sleeker, skin-right and leather with sporty trim. He can’t help but moan a little, arousal prickling hot all over, when George’s hand tightens around him.

A couple taps on the phone with his other hand and George announces, “They’ll be at my tailor tomorrow,” before he sets the device on the end table behind Alex’s head.

“You won’t regret it.”

George smiles broadly. Alex’s flush only deepens when George slides out from beneath the legs draped over his lap, pressing Alex against the lush couch and settling on top of him. Body deliciously heavy and imposing. “You’ve never given me cause to regret _anything,_ little one.”

\- - - - -

 _“Relax,”_ Alex chides, watching as George leans against the bar and settles into the unfamiliar space, stiff amidst the swaying crush of sweat slicked, half dressed, intoxicated bodies. “No one’s going to look twice at you.”

Not for being overdressed, at least; since stepping foot inside the place, Alex has stared down at least three shirtless twinks flashing their big eyes in George’s direction, making sure his glare and the way he leans into George’s space clearly announces _back the fuck off, this is_ my _man._

(Alex Hamilton, possessive of a _client._ Just one more way he’s utterly _fucked_ right now.)

George’s voice is low, pitched under the insistent thrum of the music. _Knowing,_ as he looks Alex over in turn with a critical eye. “I’m not concerned about me.”

Alex’s cheeks flame under the scrutiny. Even while standing in place— as much as he can with other patrons bumping against him— the plug shifts slightly inside him, filling even though it’s small enough for him to walk around with relative ease. Barely an hour earlier George had pushed Alex onto his stomach after his shower, marking up his neck and shoulders and then moving steadily lower, spreading his legs apart and opening him with mouth and tongue until Alex couldn’t _breathe_ for the waves of pleasure overtaking him. When George worked the plug past his aching rim it was with a heated promise to make it worth his while, and Alex thrills at the thought of someone seeing him like this. Pupils blown wide, a new hickey blossoming on his throat, cock throbbing in his tight black jeans.

“I’m fantastic,” he declares, grinning. He settles in a little closer, shamelessly molding himself against George’s sturdy frame.

George’s eyes are dark in the low light, but Alex still doesn’t miss the sudden tilt of his gaze over Alex’s shoulder, a spark of interest. Alex turns, spying an empty pool table in a dim back corner, nearly hidden by the crowded dance floor.

“Seriously?” Alex scoffs. _“That’s_ how you want to spend your dime?”

"You've never played pool with _me,”_ George retorts.

Turns out— George is a _phenomenal_ shot. Ball after ball after ball in various pockets, a crease of concentration lining his brow that somehow makes him look even more gorgeously austere. Bent over the table, long arms stretched as he lines up the cue. Thick fingers curled around tarnished wood. Even when he misses the fourth solid, he still manages to put Alex at a disadvantage.

It’s not _fair._

“Fucking _hell,”_ Alex hisses, scowling at the table as the cue ball spins in the exact _opposite_ direction he was intending.

George has the good sense not to laugh, but his eyes sparkle when Alex fixes the scowl on _him._ Instead of taking his turn, he slides in close, crowding Alex against the table and leaning in along his back. Strong arms wrap around him, broad hands covering his own. It’s a striking contrast: George’s clean, simple manicure, Alex’s slender fingers adorned with shining black nails. “You’re overthinking it,” George murmurs, breath warm on his neck. “Instinct, not intellect.”

All the air leaves his lungs when he realizes that George is half-hard against his ass, nudging the plug with the smallest shift of their bodies. Alex manages to choke back the moan, but he can’t suppress the slight shudder that runs through him.

 _“There_ you go,” George praises, soft, as they sink one of the stripes. Alex’s throat closes; that _tone_ makes him long for too many goddamn impossible things. While he doesn’t give a fuck about his place in George’s life, how they met— so he’s a whore, what of it?— the place in George’s _heart_ is another matter.

He can’t _think_ about it. Not now, when the overstimulation from within and without threatens to spiral him into panic. George eventually straightens, setting the cue down and resting his hands loosely on the table, but never steps away. Alex twists in place and sinks to his knees, gasping a little when pleasure sparks through him as he settles.  
  
George’s face is a complicated fracture of incredulity and unmistakable desire. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands; Alex looks up through his lashes.  
  
"That should be obvious."

It’s difficult, but Alex pauses for a few moments. Giving them both time to call a halt. When George glances furtively around the club and then finally pins Alex in place with dark eyes and a graveled, “Keep going,” Alex wastes no further time in freeing George’s cock, mouth damn near watering when he finally gets the hot, rigid length in hand.  
  
George barely has time to adjust his stance over the pool table, bracing his hands on the green to support his weight and moving to shield most of Alex with his bulk, before Alex can’t wait any longer. He works his hands in a steady stroke, leans in, guides George’s cock deep until his lips are stretched obscenely wide around the base and the head nudges the back of his throat.

 _"Christ,"_ George curses, quiet and rough. Alex decides not to be merciful, not after the agony George has put him through; he _teases,_ pulling nearly all the way off just to take it all down again, hands holding tightly to broad thighs as wet, desperate noises tear from him.

George is huge and thick and feels so fucking _good._ Alex has eagerly sucked a lot of cocks, but _none_ of them have ever compared to this.

The answering groan is riled, barely controlled, and Alex suddenly feels a hand pulling his hair, tightening in the longest strands of his undercut. Alex audibly moans around the length in his mouth, abruptly unable to care who might hear him.

"This how you want it?” George rasps, firmly guiding Alex's head along his cock, holding him still while Alex's throat works around the glorious intrusion.

Alex whines, hands fisted in George’s tastefully distressed jeans, staring up with eyes gone tear filled and blurry. George chases the friction by bobbing Alex's head over his length, his hand curled around the back of Alex’s head the only protection from colliding with the pool table. It's rough and deep and when Alex chokes on a particularly forceful thrust, George’s gaze turns fierce.

"Just begging for it," he growls, with a ragged catch in his voice that betrays just how close he is. "Wanting everyone to know you're _mine—”_

He shoves Alex’s face to his belly and comes down Alex's waiting throat, groaning low and filthy. Alex swallows greedily even as he gags and struggles to breathe, allowing himself to be held there until George softens and carefully pulls free.

After tucking himself away and putting his clothing back to rights, George helps him to his feet with a supportive hand under his elbow. Alex feels a mess, knows he looks even worse— dazed and breathless, mouth slick and swollen, tear tracks on his cheeks; cock hard enough to be painful, plug shoved inescapably against his prostate.

“You owe me.” Alex rasps the reminder with a grin and a wrecked voice. “You said you’d make it worth my while, _sir.”_

George’s eyes gleam as he takes Alex’s hand in his own. “So I did.”

They abandon their game, George leading Alex to a single occupant bathroom tucked away in the less populated basement of the club after a necessary, but still agonizing detour to cajole the bartender.

“And you said I shouldn’t bring hundreds,” George muses, tucking his sleek wallet back into his jacket as they descend the stairs.

“I stand corrected,” Alex allows, impatience robbing him of his usual playful charm. His blood thrums with unmet need as George _finally_ ushers him into the little space and shuts and locks the door securely behind them. “God, just _fuck me_ already—”

George pins him against the wall, hard enough to make Alex’s breath catch. “You know how filthy this is? How filthy _you_ are?”

“Only for _you,”_ Alex gasps. It’s true; only George has ever stolen his mind and heart like this, ever burrowed so deep Alex can’t imagine a life without him.

He whimpers an obscene curse as George shoves a thick thigh between Alex’s trembling legs and drags him astride. The sudden inescapable pain-pleasure-pressure against his cock, on the cleft of his ass, is nearly unbearable.

“I’ve got you,” George murmurs. Hands sturdy and steady on Alex’s hips as he moves Alex bodily against him, Alex stuttering every breath as he tumbles ever closer toward release.

_“George—”_

_“Come,_ Alexander,” George begs, lips brushing the exposed line of Alex’s throat, holding tight as Alex clings to him. “Make a mess of us.”

With a wild shout muffled in George’s neck, Alex shatters apart.

\- - - - -

The ride away from the frenetic energy of the club is quiet. They take one of George’s cars— no need for a taxi when there’s private drivers on the payroll— and George leaves their fingers entwined the entire time. Thumb stroking slowly over the back of Alex’s hand as they watch the lights of the city blur outside their respective windows.

Alex is half expecting to be dropped off at his apartment— the one space wholly his own, funded with the money George regularly gives him for his _services._ It’s little used anymore, but still meticulously maintained.

It’s not that he feels like he’s crossed a line with _George—_ they discussed it months ago, fucking they wanted to do and fucking they were willing to try. The post-orgasm buzz still hasn’t subsided, and Alex would bet everything he owned that George is feeling the same.

But…

Alex knows he’s crossed a line in his _own_ brain. That somehow— whether it’s from seeing George on his own turf, George unrestrained, George as he _is_ without the trappings of responsibility— everything’s turned upside down.

Alex is in _love,_ and he _wants more,_ and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

When the car stops, George opens his own door first and gently, but insistently, tugs Alex after him. It’s not until Alex climbs out and he steps onto polished stone, glances up at the building taller than the tallest structure he remembers from long-ago Saint Croix, that he realizes—

“I thought you were taking me to my place.”

George blinks at him, brow furrowing. “I said we were going _home.”_

Alex _laughs._ Stunned, relieved, and halfway to hysterical, all while George looks on not in resentment or ire but in growing concern. Alex is crying when he finally wipes at his eyes and steadily meets George’s gaze. It’s how he sees the uncharacteristic hesitation, the sudden uncertainty, before George adds, “It’s yours, if you want it to be.”

Alex’s head is pounding from the loud music, his eyes stinging, the plug hurts in his sensitive ass, his jeans are tacky with drying come— but he’s deliriously, unbelievably _happy._

“Yeah,” he says, giddy and lightheaded from blossoming hope, squeezing George’s hand. “Yeah, I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is nearly two years old, originally based off [these](https://images.app.goo.gl/6EEKP4Rt2nABxUWY7) [pictures](https://images.app.goo.gl/DJWBCWo7SXaTZqy76) [of CJack](https://images.app.goo.gl/zRRKXSGBMCSgNmLu7) and [this picture of Lin](https://images.app.goo.gl/iA62K3Wx514i7Mxq5). I started it in summer 2017 and it sat untouched and I thought it would remain so... *until* Lin posted [that goddamn video](https://twitter.com/Lin_Manuel/status/1118503930076508160) where he looks like a twinky snack. Thus started a two day writing tare where this fic ate my brain day and night and I'm *so happy* to be able to share it. :)
> 
> Here's also the inspiration for the [mood/title](https://youtu.be/Jj8FMujbRQU) (literally from the moment the mixtape dropped I *knew* I would feature it in a fic about Alex someday), and for [Alex's outfit](https://images.app.goo.gl/fvNvSKVjCEyS6pxZ8) described in the first paragraph! Thanks to all the friends that cheered me on along the way, and thank you all for the lovely comments that I have not gotten to respond to yet, but still go back and reread. I appreciate you!!
> 
> I'm a little behind on updating, but I'm also found on DW @aidennestorm. :)


End file.
